


Seer's Walk

by Kylenne



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Poly, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Black Character(s), Character(s) of Color, City Elf Inquisitor, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Lavellan Backstory, Multi, Pirates, Teen Angst, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 03:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13966620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylenne/pseuds/Kylenne
Summary: A collection of vignettes written about Khedira Lavellan, Seeress of Rivain, for the Elfebruary 2018 writing prompts on Tumblr. Posted in no particular chronological order, they are nonetheless connected and all take place in the usual DA-verse I write in.





	1. Dream

Stars shone all the brighter in the darkness. It was truer still upon the vast northern seas, so far from shore, where they shone like tiny diamonds against a vast shroud of ebon velvet draped upon still waters. Even so, for all their brilliance, that darkness was vast and impenetrable, blurring the horizon line between sea and sky.

Others may have feared such darkness; Khedira was not such a one, not this elf who served the Lady of Night and Shadow, and was dedicated to it. She smiled at the ship’s wheel, gazing out at the blurred horizon, noting the distinction between a thousand subtle variations in shade with keen vision, deep and inky violets and blues. She let it wash over her, along with the stillness, held gently within it as her ship sailed calm, unnatural waters.

If her heart was heavy, it was not from fear but longing: a longing as vast as this darkness which nestled her in its quiet embrace, a longing for these selfsame waters. Khedira was not made to dwell in cold and towering mountains, surrounded by uncaring stone. She was made to be cradled by gentle waves, to be humbled by storm-lashed fury, and left to contemplate the great Mystery of the deeps in all their eldritch glory. 

The sea was her life: it saved her twice over, it made her everything she was, and nearly broke her. It carried her to rebirth on a faraway isle, and to the destiny which Spirit had marked her for. All her life, the sea had been an inexorable part of her fate.

The sea was everything to her, and these fleeting moments were all she had with it anymore, in this impossible place beyond time, in the space between consciousness, within the silence of the Dreaming, which basrani called the Fade. Khedira stared out at that vastness in all its dark beauty, and wanted to weep for it.

"You miss it a great deal."

Soft-spoken words stirred her from her brooding reverie at the helm, in a soothing and familiar brogue, lilting in its rhythmic cadence. She turned only slightly, hands still on the wheel, and he was standing beside her, tall and lean. Once more, for the seeming thousandth time, she was struck by Solas' beauty: the distinguished elegance of his profile with its sharp, straight nose and generous lips, the artfulness of his hair with its carefully shaved sides and long locs of chestnut brown cascading back down the center of his head. There, the way his rich bronze skin fair gleamed from within. And there, the graceful points of his ears, sharp and adorned with small cuffs of carved bone and oliphaunt tusk.

Khedira's eyes drifted at last to his own, those pools of luminous blue like unto a clear summer sky, searching and soft as his voice. "Yes," she answered him at last, drinking in the ethereal beauty that seemed all the sharper and more fey within the Dreaming, losing herself in it for comfort's sake. It dulled the pain somewhat. "It was my life for so long. But now..."

She turned from him and sighed, lowering her eyes to the wheel, gripping the wood tighter within her grasp. And she felt his shadow stretch over her, dark as the night seas, when he slipped behind her and wrapped his arms about her bare waist. "It's never far from you, you realize? You carry it with you, always." She heard him inhale deeply, with a pleasant sigh. "The scent of it clings to you, salt and surf carried in the wind. Your Spirit, is it not?"

"Yes," Khedira replied. She released the wheel, and turned within the protective circle of his arms, reaching up to wrap her own about his neck. "It's another telltale of Osana's chosen." She smiled at him. "Didn't you know that?"

Solas returned her smile, tucking an errant braid behind her pointed ear, then leaned down to part her lips with his own, slipping an eager tongue between her teeth. Khedira's breath faltered, and she clung tighter to him, as though she were drowning once more, and he was the driftwood to which she held for life. The anchor of melancholy weighing upon her hear felt lighter then; it lifted all the more when he drew her into his warm embrace once again, with his wiry strength. She buried her nose in the soft white fur of his thick wolf-skin pelt, and inhaled deeply of his own scent which perpetually clung to him: earthy pine and vetivert, warm loam and ancient forests. As she did, her heart grew even lighter, filled with warmth spreading through her chest. She was starved for this, she realized, for simple touch, for smoldering fire surrounding her, enveloping her, calling her home.

"I don't want to wake, beloved," she whispered, with a long sigh.

"Neither do I," Solas admitted. He released an arm and pulled back, only enough to stroke her cheek with feather light touches, and he took the delicate point of her chin between slender, calloused fingers. "But when we do, I'll be there beside you, vhenan. I swear it. Come, let's go."

Khedira stirred, her long lashes fluttering as the faintest hint of moonlight peeked beneath her heavy lids. And as she slowly opened her eyes, she was met with his gaze once more, narrow and lupine and curious as always. It was not the scent of sea or forest which hung in the air between them, but that of sweat and lingering passion spent, clinging to his glistening skin. She reached over and kissed him again, tasting her honeyed salt upon his tongue. But she didn't feel as if--

"You're doing it again, aren't you?" she said suspiciously, in more an accusation than a question.

"Doing what, _vhenan_?" he asked a bit too innocently.

"We're still asleep, you imp." She poked his shoulder sharply with a finger. It felt satisfying, somehow.

Solas' eyes twinkled with unabashed mirth. "Are we?"

She suddenly felt the heat of the noonday sun drifting through the window out to the garden, and Solas' bare arm draped over her body. His flesh was quivering, and when she glanced up at him, he was giggling like a small child.

"They made you from elfroot and nonsense," Khedira declared indignantly, slapping him with the nearest decorative pillow.

Solas laughed even harder, and drew her closer, to kiss the top of her head.


	2. Memento

Round and round the gilded coin turned deftly across her knuckles, slender fingers catching it again and again, mesmerizing her own dark eyes as she flicked it across and back, watching its polished edges gleam in the light of the dying fire. She laid outstretched upon a blanket, her head propped up on a log, and flipped the coin end over end. It was soothing, in the sensation along her hand, and in the counting of it, the meditation on what it meant. 

Two heads, two faces, two seemingly disparate archetypes: the trickster and the philosopher, the king and the wanderer. Round and round they went, dancing along the slender fingers of a repentant thief, and Khedira was awed for not the first time at just how much Spirit had to tell her.

“Where does one even procure a coin with two heads, at any rate?” Dorian mused, as he sat across from her at the fire, and stared at her curiously. “Spoils of your raucous youth, I suppose?”

Khedira’s answering smile was wry, and slight, as it was wont to be. “One could say that.”

“Oh, come now. That lady of mystery routine may work on Blackwall, but I’ve little patience for it. You can’t leave me hanging, Khedira. I know there’s a story there, and I can’t sleep anyhow. Come on, out with it,” Dorian said. “I may even give your snake back if it’s a good story,” he added rather genially.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Very well. How about I tell you the legend of this coin instead, and you can decide.”

“Fair enough.” Dorian leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees. “I do hope it’s got ghosts in it.”

Khedira snorted, with a chuckle, and kept on rolling it along her fingers even as she spoke. “My captain told me the tale, of a pair of Antivan princes: twin sons of a desert king, tall and handsome and the pride of the royal house. They say that the king loved his sons so well that he never decided which would succeed him upon the throne; he could not choose between them. And they could not have been more different, truly. One was said to be a scholar, a genius of mathematics who invented all manner of clever machinery. But the other was a free spirit, who fled the castle to climb trees and play with foxes in the desert and chafed at life behind gilded walls. And one year, not long after they’d crossed the threshold into manhood, the king fell gravely ill. Darkspawn ague, it was said." 

She paused then, and stopped toying with the coin only long enough to sit up and take a sip of cool water from the skin beside her. And it was then that she noticed she was not alone with Dorian; the flap to Sigrun’s tent peeked open, and she joined them wordlessly at the fire. Khedira was no bard like Leliana, and certainly no storyteller, not like Mama Sey; but in the telling, she found her voice, found the cadence of her spiritual mother, the old seeress who held the entire village in rapt attention spinning tales of heroes and follies, qunari parables and folk legends of the isles that made everyone within a league drop what they were doing to listen. And she understood the rhythm of it, like that of the dance, and the ebb and flow. It was something altogether different than Varric’s art, with words upon parchment.

“This took a turn, Khedira,” Dorian said, with a little sigh.

She went back to flicking the coin across her fingers. “It did. With the king on death’s pier, it was feared the royal house would fall to chaos, with no heir. So the clever scholar prince went late one night to his brother the maverick, and asked to settle the matter between themselves. He brought with him a gold coin, minted in the likeness of the royal house, and one simple plea: that the fate of the kingdom be decided by main chance, the simple toss of a coin. The scholar bid the maverick choose a side, the head for his freedom, the tail for the throne. And his brother, longing for freedom, chose the head.”

Khedira took another sip of water-–deliberately overlong, though she was parched. It was worth it to see Dorian’s mustache twitch.

“And?” He demanded.

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the coin high into the night sky, so high that the light of the fire no longer glinted along its surface, and anyone would have lost it; anyone human that is. Dwarves’ eyes were sharp as elves, when one got down to it, and Sigrun’s had no trouble following its path, even as Dorian’s narrowed in confusion. But they stared, each with parted lips, drawn into the drama of it all.

Khedira was no bard, but she knew something of playing to a crowd. She danced, after all.

She caught it effortlessly, and slapped it upon the back side of her hand, revealing it with the other: the aquiline profile, and curls tied back with a ribbon, worn though it was. “Heads, in the likeness of the scholar. The brothers parted that night, in a tearful and bittersweet farewell, wishing each other the blessings of the Maker upon their fates, for they would not cross again. But not before the maverick, now the wanderer, spied the head of his own likeness upon the other side of the coin, when the scholar returned it to its pouch on his belt.”

“It was a setup! I _knew_ it!” Dorian cried. “The scholar was too clever by half. He knew his brother would hate the throne. He--oh, that lad. That sweet lad. He loved his brother, didn’t he? Enough to trick him with a two headed coin.”

Meanwhile, Sigrun’s eyes looked as if they would pop right out of her head, as she stared gaping at Khedira’s hand. “That can’t be it, can it? All this time, you’ve been carrying around _the_ coin? _Their_ coin?”

Khedira smiled her wry smile again. “This coin belonged to my captain. It could be the Twinstar of the Desert, as Antivan raiders call it; this tale dates back hundreds of years, and their line returned to the sands like so many others. It could be one of a thousand minted and prized by romantic fools in honor of the legend. Who can say? I only know that it belonged to my captain, and it was his good luck charm, until the day he left it behind, and his luck ran out.”

The smile faded from her lips, her chest tightening. She took a deep breath, and rose to her feet.

“What happened to the wandering prince, anyhow?” Dorian asked softly, his eyes near to brimming. He was ultimately a gentle soul for all his betimes nonsense, Khedira thought, and it was why she was so fond of the man.

“No one knows. Some say he was set upon by Crows, after refusing the bribes of a merchant house to betray his brother the king. Others say he joined the Wardens, and perished defending his homeland from the Blight. My captain believed the version that told his long journeys took him to my own country, the north country of Rivain, where he loved an outcast Tal-Vashoth man and founded a fighting school. I like that one too,” Khedira replied.

At that, she bowed a farewell, and stretched out once more, this time within the privacy of her tent, left to the darkness and silence of her thoughts.

What was true and what was mere legend where her prized coin was concerned, Khedira could not say. But her Captain, her Leandros…he was a romantic fool; of this Khedira was certain.

So was she, when one got down to it, which is why she treasured it so, after all this time, after losing everything, including him.

_Keep it, Little Fang. He would have given it to you anyway._

Round and round their faces turned across her knuckles: scholar and maverick, king and wanderer. She saw echoes of herself in it, perhaps: Khedira Lavellan, herself a woman of two faces, like the coin. Murderer and priestess, thief and seeress.

Maybe, like the desert princes of myth and legend, each side had more in common than was believed.

Khedira kissed the scholar’s head, with its nest of curls less like a king and more like a raider’s, and thought on these things.

As she thought on Leandros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a loving tribute to the Figaro Bros. of Final Fantasy VI, the game that got me writing fanfic in the first place.


	3. Surprise Gift

Skyhold was fair bustling in a whirlwind of activity, once the Orlesian Master Couturier Chretien Bélanger and his vast army of designers and apprentices descended upon the fortress. An army it was in truth, for they worked in a manner of military precision that managed to impress even Loghain. 

Vivienne oversaw it all personally, of course. Let Mac Tir see to the War Room; the Winter Palace gala would be her battlefield, and Khedira would have entrusted no one else among her inner circle with the strategy—not even Leliana, who while seasoned indeed, and bearing many eyes and ears within it, had been too long absent from the Orlesian court to read it in the manner the Enchanter could. The Princess Consort of Ferelden was nonetheless deeply involved in the planning, and sequestered herself with her wife, Lady Montilyet, and Vivienne for hours at a time, pooling their information on this or that noble. And at night, Vivienne always appraised Khedira of their discussions, in an impromptu crash course in Orlesian intrigue. 

That said, Khedira did not precisely relish the occasion. Somewhat in her remained rather terrified of the notion, and she felt entirely out of her depths—even in the days at the height of her power on Estwatch as the notorious Captain Blackfang, Khedira had little to do with such intrigues, as Armada politics were quite a bit more rough and tumble than the Orlesian Game. In Estwatch, if someone insulted Khedira, she simply nailed their hand to the table with her knife.

Such things, it would seem, were frowned upon in Orlais.

Not that Khedira would have engaged in such violence even were it not; she was no longer Captain Blackfang, Terror of Rialto Bay. Those days were long behind the wise and patient Seeress of Rivain, and mercifully so. Still, she had little taste for intrigues all the same. Khedira was a practical sort of woman with little use for subtle barbs—even now, as the wise and patient seer, she always made her displeasure known in a straightforward manner. Her reticence and betimes aloofness would never be mistaken for coyness by anyone.

Which is why she left the politicking to the others. Her part in this mission was simple: end the Venatori threat to the Empress. But before that, the threat must be rooted out. And until then, Khedira would have to play this Game she so detested. 

It did not help that Vivienne was characteristically unsympathetic with regards to Khedira’s apprehension. They quarreled something fierce in those days leading up to the fete, more than they ever had. Vivienne insisted that she trade heavily on her notorious past as a raider captain, as it would serve to intimidate the sheltered aristocrats, and add to the mystique surrounding her which intrigued them. Khedira, naturally, was appalled by such a notion, and fought bitterly with her about it. More than once, Khedira wondered if it was proof that they were as fundamentally unsuited to each other as detractors held. In those days, the stark differences between them were more apparent than ever, in every short word and stony gaze.

When Khedira’s fittings with Belanger began, however, things changed. Then, Vivienne ceded to her wishes wherever possible, only offering a suggestion here or there, and intervening whenever the notoriously prickly genius was untoward—Orlesians being who they were, there was a certain arrogance with which he treated Khedira, this foreign elven witch with the strange tattoos and scars, and whose arts were terrifying anathema to the Chantry. Vivienne remained steadfast and firm in her defense, and Khedira silently relished it, truth be told. It was a welcome reminder that whatever their disagreements, Vivienne still fundamentally cared about her, and loved her despite everything on life telling her that she should not. 

Khedira received another reminder, late one night after an exhausting day of fittings and briefings. Sealing rifts was far less trying, in fact, and she collapsed upon her bed without even so much as a second thought for the altar shrine across the room, or the devotions she was neglecting. 

Not long after her head hit the pillow, there was a polite rapping at the door to her chambers, just off the gardens. 

She sighed, and sat back up, reaching for the robe of gauzy black silk which hung from the post. “Yes?” she called out. 

“It’s only me, darling,” the familiar voice sounded muffled behind the door. “Don’t get dressed on my account,” was added dryly. 

Khedira laughed softly, and nonetheless draped the garment across her painted skin before rising to answer the door. Vivienne stood tall and lovely behind it, clad in brocade of damask rose and clutching a small wooden box with an intricate seal carved into it. 

“What have you there?” Khedira asked, tilting her head a little, as Vivienne swept past her into the room, and stride with purpose toward the bed. 

She sat with her usual prim elegance, the long line of her legs angled just so, her ankles crossed.  “Come, I’ll show you,” she said, and patted the space beside her. 

Khedira obediently sat next to her, and watched curiously as Vivienne’s finger toyed with the brass latch upon the box. “I know all of this business with Halamshiral has been rather trying for you. And I know that, despite my best intentions, I’ve not made things any easier on you. If I have been harsh, know only that I’ve had your best interests at heart. I meant to give this to you the night of the fete, but take it now by way of peace offering,” she said quietly, stroking Khedira’s knee. 

She handed the box over, and Khedira accepted it with a curious head tilt. When she opened the lid, she spied nestled within a bed of black silk a delicate glass decanter. Khedira lifted it out with a great deal of care, marveling at the way the dim lamplight of her chamber seemed to dance in a rainbow with the glass spirals. And when she gently lifted the stopper, a scent of heartrending beauty blossomed throughout her senses, filling them with what she could only name as Rivain. 

Forests of sandalwood, colorful hibiscus and flowers that grew only within the rich soil of volcanic mountains, with no name in any basrani tongue. The salt of the sea. Heady spice and incense drifting through the Grand Bazaar of Ayesleigh. And rising above it all, fragrant jasmine, night blooming flower of the seers. 

Rivain, in a bottle. 

As she inhaled it deeply, her heart swelled with unimaginable warmth and longing in kind. Tears formed at the corners of Khedira’s eyes, at her beloved homeland captured in such perfect essence in all its complexity and beauty, with such love in it. 

“Beloved...” Khedira said a bit breathlessly, a hard lump formed in her throat. 

Vivienne reached over then, resting a soft hand over Khedira’s, grasping it and the bottle in kind. And her eyes, so dark and luminous, were even softer when they met Khedira’s own, shining like stars in the midnight sky with a kindness and depth of affection that nearly set the elf to crying outright. 

“This is a scent for you, and you alone, my love. I commissioned the House of Atha itself to design it, and the formula is known only to the Gran Parfumier of the House; she will give it only to you, and none other shall wear it on pain of arrest. Such rights of sumptuary exclusivity are normally given only to one other, mind, and that is the Empress herself,” Vivienne explained. The corner of her mouth quirked into a wry little grin. “So, I do hope you like it. It would be quite the scandal if you didn’t,” she added. 

Khedira did not have to be so versed in the intricacies of Orlesian high society to understand Vivienne’s meaning. This tiny bottle within her grasp—their grasp—was worth a literal Empress’ ransom, in prestige. Of course, everyone would know it was the Madame de Fer who still possessed such clout as to order such a commission seemingly at whim; just as they would know it was she, Belanger’s great muse, who coaxed the reclusive genius to the mountains of Skyhold to garb their inner circle. Khedira wasn’t foolish enough to believe Vivienne never had an ulterior motive, not this shrewd player of the Game. Appearances were everything in Orlais, as she’d said no infuriating shortage of times.  

Still...it meant somewhat, to Khedira. This was no thoughtless gift; this was Vivienne, who swore to disavow crude sentiment as base weakness, granting her one of the greatest honors of the world she held dear, foreign though it may have been to a Rivaini seeress who bore a lifetime of scars--and only some visible. 

She wept then, tears falling from her wide eyes at last in earnest, as she thought on Vivienne, this regal grand dame who shone brightest of all in a sky full of those who deemed themselves stars yet were but glass before her glory. That such a woman would find somewhat in Khedira beside the flawed, damaged creature who crawled the path of redemption on bloodied hands and knees was something which never ceased to amaze her. But this...that Vivienne would seem her worthy of an Empress’ glory?

Khedira wept, that she would be found so worthy, and by such a woman as Vivienne. 

And Vivienne gently pried her fingers from the bottle, placing it carefully back in its box, before drawing the lanky elf into her arms. 

“This was not precisely the reaction I’d hoped for,” she murmured a bit archly. 

“Forgive me,” Khedira breathed into her slender shoulder. “I was overcome. I love it dearly, in truth. But not nearly so much as I love you. Thank you, my lady. I may treasure it almost as much as your affection.”

Vivienne laughed softly, squeezing Khedira tightly in her embrace as she did. “Well, if you insist on such shameless flattery, I just may choose to forgive you, my lady seeress.” 

Warmth spread even further through Khedira’s chest, and she pulled away from Vivienne, but only enough to take her immaculately sculpted face within her hands.  

“No flattery, love. I mean what I say, always,” Khedira said softly, her thumbs ghosting along Vivienne’s’ sharp cheekbones, and as always she marveled at the warmth that rose in her cheeks at such a simple touch, at the brief flitting of her long, curled lashes.

“As do I, my dear,” Vivienne said softly. “You believe yourself flawed goods, still. No matter; diamond is pressed from coal. And I would have you shine, always.”

That time, Khedira did not weep; that time Khedira leaned forward, and pressed her mouth against Vivienne’s with a fierce tenderness, letting lips and tongue say what words could not. 


	4. Bitter Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: this short features one-sided romantic feelings from a minor teenager towards an adult.

The best raiders, the ones who lived to enjoy the spoils, always had a plan.

Captain Leandros had drilled that wisdom into Khedira for the past five years, from the first moment she set trembling foot upon the _Danse Macabre_ , as the newest weapon in its arsenal. Recklessness avails a raider not, and the sea floor was riddled with examples. Khedira had seen much in her short career to prove the wisdom of his words.

Which was why, late one night, the young elf found herself quietly pacing below decks, before the ornately carved door to his cabin, her heart pounding in her pointed ears, her hands trembling and covered in sweat. Her breath was short, though she tried to inhale deeply, to settle herself. There was no need to fear; she had a plan. Again and again, she silently recounted the words she rehearsed a thousand times by her lonesome while swabbing decks and going about her chores. She carefully waited until this night, when the north wind carried them far from shore and any given port; this hour, when the moon rose high and full to illuminate the still waters of the Waking Sea, and Leandros ceded the helm to Augustin before retiring below decks to chronicle the day’s events in his leather-bound journal. He would be alone in his cabin, then, and likely as weary of the tedium of long days at sea as any of them. And the captain kept an open door policy with his crew; any of them could speak with him at any time, no matter the reason. If ever they should call upon him, he would answer, and listen no matter how frank the talk. The perfect opportunity would arise. 

Khedira did her level best to match the perfection of such an opportunity, swathed in stolen finery: an Orlesian-styled gown of the deepest and finest emerald Rivaini silk, studded through with a bevy of tiny seed pearls, the bodice cinched for all its worth above her corset, hoisting up her assets so to speak. Earlier that day, when he was done with his charts, Maraan had washed and tightened her lengthy locs, as the qunari had taken upon himself to do, but Khedira had wrapped tiny gold cuffs about them and tied them up in an elaborate knot, and they spilled artfully down her back and across her shoulders, a select few curtaining the awful gash on her face. She carefully applied her prized collection of cosmetics, her share from an Orlesian merchant freighter a fortnight past: kohl to rim her large, dark eyes, carmine for her full lips, rouge for her sharply defined cheeks. The scent of orchids and ambergris clung to her wrists and neck. She even wore the jewelry Leandros had given her for her seventeenth birthday not a few months past, the large and glimmering black pearl dangling from a choker of delicate black lace, and the teardrop earrings to match. And she was very careful not to be seen by the rest of the crew, so finely adorned; she kept to the shadows, as she’d taught herself as a child in the streets of Llomerryn hiding from the corrupt city guard, Ben-Hassrath pursuers, and the templars alike.

Khedira was exceedingly good at hiding. What she was not exceedingly good at, however, was remaining calm under pressure. Despite the airtight plan she’d conceived, despite the dark beauty she polished to a shine, she could not stop trembling before that ornately carved door. What if all her carefully laid plans fell apart? What if he laughed in her face?

Finally, sick of worrying, she made herself do it. She raised a ring covered hand, and knocked politely on Leandros’ door.

The familiar voice answered her, with its quiet confidence ringing of command: “Come in.”

Khedira froze a moment; but only a moment, clamping her eyes shut, taking as deep a breath as her restrictive garments would allow, and exhaled. His own words came to her, from so long ago, before her first raid: don’t you worry, Lavellan. You’ve a plan, and so long as you believe in it, you will not falter.

She opened the door, and crossed the threshold with a single long stride, then closed it behind her, smoothly sliding the bolt in place behind her back. She lifted her gaze and saw him, seated at his writing desk at the far side of the room.

Gods, Leandros was beautiful.

Khedira knew it for truth from the very first time she laid eyes upon him, the bold and powerful raider captain who decked his bo'sun at the suggestion she be sold to Vints, and extended the selfsame hand to her with an offer of freedom and adventure she could scarce imagine as a desperate child. Even then, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

Now, as a young woman on the cusp of adulthood, she was mesmerized by him. Leandros had shed the ubiquitous captain’s coat, his signature black and gold brocade, and wore only his fine shirt of bleached white linen, sleeves carefully rolled back to reveal his tattooed forearms covered with thick black hair and intricate and colorful ink designs, the deep collar wide open to expose the smooth chest with its ever present and faintly ironic Andrastian sunburst medallion hanging from a thick gold chain around his neck. He was so effortlessly, casually elegant at rest, the very antithesis of the other shems, stinking and toothless, who counted themselves among the Armada’s captains. His facial hair was immaculately groomed and sculpted to sideburns and beard to frame his chiseled jaw with only a stripe upon his chin, and even his thick wealth of glistening black curls was artfully tousled just so. Khedira’s eyes traced every inch of his face, shamelessly drinking in his beauty without shame, tracing his rugged features.

Leandros, for his part, did not seem startled by her own appearance. He lowered his pen along with his eyes, and exhaled a strange little sigh, before lightly chuckling and rising to his feet. “I take it you’re not here to discuss an increase of shares?” he asked congenially, as he tucked in his chair, and walked around the front of the desk. When he did, Khedira’s eyes drifted to the scarlet sash about his waist, and the black breeches beneath them, snug and tight about his shapely hindquarters. His tall leather boots were polished to a shine, as usual, and the tops reached his thighs.

All her carefully rehearsed words flew out of her head as she stared at them.

“No,” Khedira blurted out rather lamely.

“It’s for the best, I suppose. This gambit would never work on Augustín,” Leandros said, flashing a wry little grin with that sensuous mouth made for wine and sin. Khedira’s own grew dry, watching his lips quirk so. Then he blinked slowly, and shook his head softly, setting the gold twists dangling from his ears to shaking a little. He leaned back upon the edge of the desk, folding his arms against his chest. “Alright, Little Fang. You have your audience. What do you wish of me?”

Khedira bristled at his use of that old nickname; she’d come to despise it, these past few months, though even she did not entirely understand why. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I have a name.”

The smile that answered her was enigmatic and it baffled her. With an incline of his head, Leandros lifted a ring covered hand at her, in a gesture of contrition and his usual careless grace. “Of course, my apologies. What do you wish of me, Khedira?” he asked, a second time, taking care to emphasize her name.

She fair melted when he did. His voice, low and quiet with its uniquely beautiful accent, a tapestry woven from the threads of the many nations in his colorful past–the harshness of Nevarran softened by melodic Antivan, with a distant note of far-off Orlais and even a hint of Starkhavener's brogue–was like nothing else to her, and wrapped about the syllables of her name like soft velvet. Perhaps Khedira hated the old nickname as such because it meant she never got to hear that.

It did nothing to help her sudden lack of eloquence; she fumbled for the words she’d crafted with care and practiced over and over again, but they all seemed just short of her grasp, with Leandros’ eyes upon her, dark and luminous as the pearl which rested in the hollow of her throat. Khedira shut her own against them, against the fluttering of her chest, and willed herself still.

She took another deep breath, and felt dragonbone tighten against her torso, straining beneath the thick brocade.

She spoke. 

“You.” The word seemed disembodied, as though it were somehow floating, and she did not hear it uttered from within so much as outside herself.

When she opened her eyes, Leandros was silent, staring at her with an expressionless gaze, the same face he wore during Liar’s Dice, or Diamondback: mysterious, inscrutable, unreadable. He gave nothing away without intent, her captain, and never had.

And then he bit his lower lip, with a little sigh, lowering his head. “I know.”

Of all the possible scenarios her imagination dreamed up for this night, that was not one of them: the possibility that Captain Leandros, the cleverest man she knew, would have already known how she felt about him, did not even begin to occur to her. Khedira’s eyes grew wide, and she felt as if she’d been doused with icy water. Someone had to have betrayed her secret; it was too well kept. No one knew. She’d told no one. The plan demanded it. She clenched her teeth, once the shock of it passed, and it turned to a simmering heat in her blood. Someone betrayed her.

Again.

“Who told you?” Khedira demanded, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

“You did,” Leandros replied, with an idle shrug of his broad shoulders. “You’re not nearly as circumspect as you believe, and I’ve been too long in the world not to see it. I only wondered when it would come to this. When would you seek to play this hand? And here we are.”

Of course. He was so worldly, so self-assured. Leandros Mykolos, the dashing gentleman of fortune who left a trail of broken hearts in his wake from Cumberland to Amaranthine and Val Royeaux to Ayesleigh, would naturally need no one to tell him when a girl wanted him. Khedira’s fleeting anger faded just as quickly as it came over her, and she strode toward him with newfound boldness infusing her every step, swishing her narrow hips as Zavina taught her men liked.

“Here we are. Here I am,” Khedira said, and she remembered at last the words she rehearsed. “You gave me freedom. And I give you my heart. I will give everything you would desire of me. I am yours for the taking, body and soul.”

Leandros’ thick brows furrowed downward, and he sighed once more, pinching the bridge of his hawk-like nose before giving his reply, with a tone as equally grave as his expression.

“I cannot.”

Two softspoken words pierced her heart as sharp and true as his fine steel blades ever sank into an enemy. Daggers would have hurt less, truly.

Khedira groped for the arm of the nearby chair, dazed and breathless; it seemed the very air and life itself were sucked out of her with his utterance, and she didn’t sit so much as collapse, sinking down into its plush cushion. 

Leandros crossed what seemed to her a chasm between them, though it was only a few short feet in truth, and sank to one knee before her, taking her shaking hands into his grasp with a tenderness that did nothing to ease her ache; indeed, it was merely salt in the gaping wound. 

“Khedira, I’m sorry. More sorry than you may realize. But I cannot accept this gift from you; I cannot do this thing you want,” Leandros said, squeezing her hands.

“Don’t touch me, you bastard!” she cried, and as soon as the bitter command left her lips, he released her, spreading his hands wide, showing her his palms in a gesture of surrender.

“Forgive me. I only mean to comfort you–-”

“Then love me, as I want!” Khedira’s voice cracked, and tears streamed down her face in a torrent, streaking black kohl down her mahogany cheeks. “That is the only comfort I want from you!”

“And it is the only comfort I will not give you,” Leandros said, with a quiet firmness. “I would give you anything, you must realize. Anything except this.” 

“Why?” Khedira cried, with a choked sob. “Do I mean nothing to you at all?”

“It’s because you mean everything to me that I cannot,” Leandros replied quietly. He scoffed then, a disgusted little click of his tongue, and swore under his breath in Nevarran. “A raiders’ ship is no place for a child. I was a fool to let this happen. I swore I would not.”

Child. The word rankled Khedira like little else, even her damned nickname. Did a child call fire and unholy abominations forth at her captain’s command? The qunari certainly saw no child when they looked upon her. Why should he, all of a sudden?

“I’m no _child_ , Leandros! I was no _child_ when them that sired me abandoned me to Ben-Hassrath collars! I was no _child_ when Emilio thought to sell me like a sack of rice to the Vints, and I was no _child_ when you made me your weapon, to wield me and fill your coffers with ill-gotten treasure! All my life I’ve been treated like anything but a child! You’ve been no different! Why stop now? Why only now do you find a conscience?” Khedira yelled at him, pouring out her misery, lashing out at him with all the pain of her young lifetime, and not merely of his rejection. It was all blurred together, in truth, streaked with kohl and rouge. Hulking kossith stalking into her room that night and stealing her away while her parents deliberately turned a deaf ear to her screaming terror, the bile in her mouth when she stared numb at the contents of her stomach spread upon the deck and the charred corpse beside it–the first person she ever killed. Cold qunari chains, the warmth of Leandros’ arms around her in soothing comfort. A thousand hollow admonishments, for her own good: _Be silent, saarebas. The first is always the hardest, but it was him or you, and you yet live. This is for your own good, my heart; the qun demands it. Steady, clean your blade when you sheathe it; it will dull and it’s unseemly, besides_.

_I cannot_.

Khedira sobbed, and cursed him by turns; him and all who had ever wronged her. And Leandros bore it with dignity, as he bore everything, that damned aristocrat turned pirate. She screamed and yelled and cried, her body racked with bitter sobs, and he took it all without flinching.

“It’s true: I wronged you deeply,” Leandros said. “Forgive me, Khedira. You’re right: I made you a weapon. I used you, for my own purpose, and convinced myself I was doing right, that by giving you a place on the _Macabre_ , I was saving you from an even worse fate, from a world that would see an elf girl as somewhat else than a weapon of destruction. Of a surety, that was true–but it was not the whole of the truth, and I repent bitterly of it. And this is the very reason I must refuse you, Khedira. I’ll not use you again. I may be a fool betimes, but an educated one, and I never make the same mistake twice.”

“Why must you deny me this one thing, when you lavish me with everything else? Did you not hear me? I _want_ this! This is my choice,” Khedira said sternly, her jaw clenching up again. “I want to be with you. I want to be yours. And I want you to be mine.”

“As you wanted to join the crew,” Leandros reminded her. “And you are as ill-equipped to make this choice as the first one. Perhaps even less equipped, in truth. You know even less of what this entails than you did of the raider’s life when you were twelve and cowering in that galley.” 

“Why do you treat me like a child and a fool?” Khedira scowled. “I am neither! I’m not twelve anymore!”

Leandros held his palm up again, spreading it before her. “Peace, love. I do not say these things to insult you, or call you foolish. I know well you are no longer the gangly child I plucked from that ship. You are a fierce and incomparable raider. I only mean to say that you are a young woman not even reached the age of majority, and your only world these past five years has been this ship.”

“A world you showed me!” Khedira said. “A world you opened to me. And I’ve seen more than you realize. Enough to know this is the only world I could ever want–your world. Is that not enough?”

“Ah, Khedira. You’ve seen a great deal,‘tis true; too much, and that I repent also, more than you’ll ever know. But I am a man grown, nearing my thirtieth year, and I have seen whole lifetimes in yours. You know not what you ask. You cannot. It is beyond your ken, as it should be. Maker knows I’ve stolen enough of your adolescence, and your innocence. I am a thief, and a scoundrel, after all. But I’ll not steal this–and theft is surely what it would be, this thing you ask, even if you are too untried to realize it now, or measure its meaning. I, however, do, and thus I must make the choice in your stead. Even should you hate me for it.” 

Khedira pushed up out of her chair, her blood grown hot with fury. He was belittling her. No matter his honeyed lies, he was still treating her like she was the half-starved little girl with skinned knees hiding in the storeroom of an Antivan merchant galleon, and not the woman she was, the woman she desperately wanted to be in her stolen finery and the cosmetics now smeared across her face, wearing the very jewels he’d given her. He still thought she was the little girl with the little fangs.

“Don’t you dare choose for me. For spirits’ sake, how many times must I tell you I’m no child, Leandros? And how can you be such a bloody hypocrite, do you hear yourself? You say again and again that freedom is everything, that we should live and love as we choose! Does this apply to everyone but me? Why was I grown enough to be your pet mage, your living bomb, but I’m not grown enough to love?”

Leandros rose to his feet and bore down on her, placing a firm grip on her shoulders, calloused palms hot against her bare shoulders, and Khedira thought she would collapse again, for entirely different reasons than the first time. His dark eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. “Love is not the issue, Khedira. Do not ever doubt my love for you. But it is because I love you, because I care for you so dearly, that I must turn you from this. I swear to you, it is not done out of cruelty; quite the contrary, in fact. But sometimes, one must be cruel to be kind.”

“Why can you never speak plainly, you pretentious git? Make sense, damn you!”

Khedira’s pique was shattered when he raised his hand from her shoulder, and rested a calloused palm against her scarred cheek, his thumb brushing against the long, jagged wound. It was not helping at all. “Do you recall the pain of the needle when we stitched this up?” he asked.

“I can hardly forget it,” she snickered. And it was true; Paolo gave her a swig of the strongest drink on board, even, before he threaded the needle. Leandros held her down, whispering soothing comfort into her ears, but her face was on fire, and she quite simply wanted to die.

“This is no different. It hurt like the Void then, but it healed in time,” he said. She felt a sharp pang when he lowered his hand from her cheek, and it had little to do with the phantom pain of her maiming.

“And it left a scar,” Khedira said, unconsciously pulling her hair down to hide it. She hated it so. No wonder he rejected her. Anyone would have.

Leandros shrugged at her.

“Who among us is without them, with the life we lead? Only some are visible, at any rate. And the ones one cannot see often linger the worst. But we endure, because we must,” he said. He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her into a sudden, fierce embrace; if Khedira doubted the truth of his words, or his affection, it was erased then. He was a beacon of warmth surrounding her, drawing her in. “You’ve endured far worse than this, my love. You’ll be all the stronger for it, I promise.”

“You think I’m ugly, don’t you? It’s what the shem who cut me wanted, anyway. For me to be ugly, since I didn’t want him back.”

She felt his body tense against her own, and his hands gripped her tighter. “Never. Not ever. He was wrong, love. Wrong to do that to you. And I should have protected you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to stop it. But if you must know why I refuse you this night, think on that cretin. I’d not be him, to view an elf girl as little more than a pretty thing to be seized or punished for my pleasure. Much less one who means as much to me as you. Yes, you are beautiful; the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, scar or no. But your beauty is not the sum of your worth, Khedira. Nor your arcane gifts. You are worth so much more than this world has named you in all its greed and cruelty. Believe me, when I say it.”

“Then why don’t you think I’m worthy of you?”

Leandros sighed, and stroked her locs, resting a warm hand atop her head. “This is not about your worthiness, love. It is about mine. Let me speak plainly: you deserve someone of your own age and ken, with whom you can grow and learn about life in all its beauty and pain together. You deserve someone with whom you can stand an equal footing. Not a man with blades older than you, to bask gloating in the light of your naive affections and steal from you the best years of your life, your youth and your promise, for his own selfish pleasures. You say you want these things, Khedira; I say to you, again, that you do not know what you ask. The kind of man who would take what you offer in such blithe naivete is not one who deserves to have you, nor the kind of man I wish to be, nor one who deserves your love or admiration. That is why I cannot, why I will not. I love you too much, in the truest measure of the word. It has little in common with the blithering of addlebrained Orlesian poets. Love is selflessness, and betimes harsh. The kind I offer you is not what you want, but what is needful. You will understand it, in time.”

This time, when she cried, it was not quite so angry; despairing then, staining his fine linen collar with muck-drenched tears. His warmth and his very scent drove her mad with grief, musk and sandalwood and the faintest hint of honeyed neroli from his favorite pomander. She clung to him like she was flotsam adrift and he was her lifeline, her fingers clawing into the back of his shirt, and wept for what seemed like an age. And he held her tightly, rocking her back and forth like a gentle wave, running a soothing hand up and down her back, and whispered endearments not as a lover, and not even as the father he betimes fancied himself, but simply as a friend. His sweetness, and his compassion would be the death of her, and some part of her welcomed it, even through the pain. It was why she loved him so; ruthless though he was at times, he could do nothing else.

And even then, as a brokenhearted girl weeping into his fine shirt, Khedira began to understand that he meant what he said, even if it was not what she wanted to hear; she could believe that he said these things out of love, when he held her this way.

“I’ll give it all back,” Khedira said, muffled by his shoulder, with a little sniffle, once the worst of her weeping passed.

“Hmm?”

“The jewels you gave me. The blades, the extra shares, all of it. I thought–-”

Leandros pulled away from her, and reached up to squeeze her shoulders again. “You thought they were lover’s tokens? Forgive me, I should have been more clear in my intentions.” He grinned at her, flashing his perfect teeth. “Give nothing back. Is that not our way? Those things, you earned. I’ll not take them from you any more than I would take what’s left of your innocence.”

“I don’t understand?”

“You make so much of this possible, love. Your gifts-–I don’t mean the ones I gave you, but those from the Maker. Everyone has a say, who swears by our colors, you know this to be true?”

“Of course. It was the first thing you taught me."

“Well, everyone voted that you should receive extra shares. It’s only fitting.”

“What of the rest, though?”

“Captain’s prerogative. I’ve no shortage of trinkets or blades, dear. Why not give a few to one who’s had little in the way of kindness in her short life?” Leandros replied. “You’ve given this scoundrel more than just fabulous wealth, you know. There’s been a great deal of joy, too. You’re not simply a weapon to me. You never have been. And I do love you dearly.”

“Then why–”

“I’ll not repeat myself, Khedira. I’ve told you why; now it falls upon you to take heed of the lesson. This night is no less one than when I taught you to find your way by the stars, or when Augustín taught you to swim.”

Khedira pouted at the memory of the latter. “He tossed me into Rialto Bay without a line!”

“You made it back to the dinghy, didn’t you?” Leandros grinned. “You’re a clever girl, Khedira. You’ll figure this out too.”

“There were _sharks_!”

He laughed, and walked to the cabinet against the far wall, reaching inside for a jeweled goblet, and tipped the contents of the decanter on his desk into the vessel. Then, he handed it to her. Not wine; water, cold and clear. Khedira refused it at first, but the pounding in her head and the parched tongue like sandpaper in her mouth overcame her pride. She downed it nearly in one long gulp, and without missing a beat, he poured her some more, and gently led her back to the chair. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said,” she mumbled.

“Then all this was for nothing?” Leandros said with a mocking tilt of his head. “Don’t toy with me so, Khedira!”

Khedira scrunched her nose at him and snorted in derision. “The cruelties, you ass. Those, I didn’t mean. The others…I meant.”

Leandros nodded. “I was only teasing you, love.” He exhaled a great sigh then, running his hand down his face. “Ah, Khedira. I meant every word I said. I bear a great deal of affection for you, and always have, even if it’s not the kind you wish of me. And you’ll always have a place in my heart, even if it’s not the one you yearn for. But I swear on the tombs of my ancestors, one day you will look back upon this night with fondness and not pain. At least, I pray you will. I believe one day you will truly understand why this must be, and I pray you’ll think me a good man for it. May there as yet be honor among thieves, though I be a scoundrel." 

He bent down then, and brushed his lips against her brow in a chaste kiss, though no less filled with affection. It stung her, like fire against her skin, and she wanted to curse him again.

She wanted to sleep more, though. For all his reassurances, and all his easy jesting, she simply wanted to flee his cabin, run to her bunk, and pretend none of this ever happened. Sleep beckoned her like a siren, and some part of her never wanted to wake up again. What was the point, now?

“Good night, captain,” Khedira said, making him an awkward bow, her locs swinging over her shoulder.

“Good night, Little Fang,” Leandros said, and it was a warm smile that crossed fleeting on his lips as she turned from him, and the ache it caused her, and walked back through the door.


	5. First Snow

Surreal, is what it was, as she trailed after her captor, and the dwarf. 

Delicate flakes of ivory fell upon her shoulders, coating the dark leather of her coat in a light dusting of white gossamer. Despite everything—the gravity of the situation, the uncertainty which stretched out before her like a gaping chasm—Khedira was somewhat enthralled by it, staring as it drifted down from the shattered sky. Such fragile, ethereal beauty it was, even in the midst of so much blood and chaos. Drifting through the acrid, frigid air, it glided downward in some manner of frozen, tearful benediction. Did the sky itself mourn the old basra priestess? Or perhaps it was the Bright Lady, absolving Khedira from the one crime of which they accused her that she did not, in fact, commit?

Perhaps. 

It was a mystery. And she was no stranger to mystery, after all, even were she a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by those who condemned and feared her even as they begged her aid. 

The others were silent, but for him. She felt his piercing eyes upon her, still, even as hers marked the falling snow, and with equal measure of curiosity. He walked at her side, hovering protectively over her, always watching. She bore it in stride; truthfully, curiosity was a far sight preferable to superstition, fear, and the bile of the Bright Lady’s zealots. 

And when they returned to the camp in the village, she was not returned to that dingy cell and its cold chains of iron, but rather led to a small, non-descript dwelling, there to ponder the enormity of what had transpired: the death of the old priestess, a hole in the sky, and yet another brand upon her skin, though this one was not rendered either by marquist’s needles or by magistrate’s sentence. Threads in an unraveled tapestry, carefully woven back together by her will, that she was to be a solitary stone thrown against the tide by those who despised her—this is what Khedira should have been contemplating. 

Rather, she stared through the window at the snow, in all its fragile beauty, such a contrast to the dull grey of this basrani village, and the angry emerald sky. The cold which accompanied it was something for which she had not been prepared, either. In all her years of travels, as a raider and as an itinerant priestess, she’d never ventured this far south, never into climes like these with such relentless cold and air so thin. Perhaps she kept her mind trained on the beauty of the snow, that she might forget the unpleasantness of what accompanied it. 

A subtle tapping on the door stirred her from these thoughts, and the tall elf waited on the other side, with arms full of woolen blankets. 

“I thought you might require somewhat more, my lady sayyadina,” Solas said, hoisting the bundle toward her with a sly, meaningful smile. 

Khedira accepted it with genuine gratitude, and the relief which filled her along with the warmth as she wrapped herself in blankets, roughspun though they were, was as palpable as said warmth. 

Only some of it was from the woolens. 

“Many thanks, friend,” she replied. She gazed up at him from her stool at the window, her eyes drifting over him yet again, unable to look away. He was tall and lanky, like her—taller, even, which still surprised her, as no other elf had ever before bested her in that regard. Though his simple woolen tunic and breeches were decidedly utilitarian—dull, were she to be candid—they clung nicely to him. He was lighter skinned than she, of a richly bronzed hue, yet with his long wealth of deep brown locs, he would not have been out of place in her homeland. The drabness of his garb, however, answered that particular question for her. 

No Rivaini would ever dress so homely.

Still, it said something, that his beauty was not dulled by his roughspun attire in the slightest; it only emphasized it, somehow. He was all sharp edges and clean lines, with finely sculpted features, and lips which formed a luscious pout. And his eyes were a striking blue, unlike any she’d ever seen before. 

Khedira turned from him, suddenly aghast as she realized she’d been gaping at him like some manner of country fishwife or starry-eyed shepherdess. She fixed her eyes back upon the snow, falling thicker and heavier now. 

“You’ve not seen its like before, have you?” he asked quietly. 

“No,” she admitted. “I’ve never ventured this far south before. Only as far as the Waking Sea, and that was a lifetime ago.”

“I see. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Solas asked. 

“And dangerous, I’d imagine. A howling wind full of that would be deeply unpleasant,” Khedira said. 

“Beauty rarely comes without danger,” he mused. Khedira glanced up at him, and his expression was an enigma. 

Was he flirting with her?

“You don’t fear me like the others,” she observed with typical bluntness. 

Solas suddenly grinned, a rather wolfish expression crossing his full lips. “Should I? Their superstitions would also condemn the likes of me in kind, though they require my aid. We have much in common, you see.”

“Is that why you remain, in spite of it? Because they require your aid?”

“Before, yes. This crisis cares little for their delicate sensibilities. But now?” Solas’s grin faded to a far gentler smile, curious and warm. “Now, I should like to see one of the famed seers of Rivain work her craft. Let one amongst Haven know you for what you truly are, at least, honored sayyadina.”

He swept a short, fluid bow toward her, locs cascading down over his shoulder as he did. He moved with such an ease of grace, she thought with admiration.

“You seem so certain that you do,” Khedira said, with a faint smile. He laughed softly, shaking his head. 

“Not really. But of a surety, I would like to. I would see what Osana’s chosen is about.”

Khedira blinked. “You know of the Dark Lady?” she asked, raising her brows in surprise. That sacred name was the last she’d ever expected to hear on a basra’s tongue so far south. Just who was this man?

“I know that your people deem her the Lady of Night and Shadow, and that she is formidable, and does not suffer fools gladly. I know that even the Rivaini fear her. And I know you bear her mark upon your back. The Umbral Blessing, isn’t it? And I would like to know such a rare woman,” Solas said, grasping his pointed chin thoughtfully. “If you would permit it, that is. And I should think you would like a friend, among these ignorant shemlen.”

He lowered his hand to her, with a warm and somewhat enigmatic smile. Even with the harsh symmetry of his features, there was a softness in that lovely azure gaze, when it fell upon her. And she felt warmth spread throughout her chest.

Khedira returned his smile with a brighter one, and reached up to clasp his offered hand. “Perhaps,” she said.

Solas squeezed her hand lightly, then released it to pull up a spartan chair beside hers, before the small window frosted over with frigid cold. Together they watched the snow fall, and Khedira believed it a blessing, then, along with this remarkable stranger—this basra elf, who knew the name of her goddess and spoke it with a respect she had not heard outside the borders of her homeland, this mage the Andrastians cursed as “apostate” even as they begged his aid.

Perhaps they truly did have somewhat in common, and perhaps that was why she felt so inexplicably drawn to him. Or perhaps it was simply that he offered her a blanket and a smile, and she was cold and tired and terribly far from home.

But in the comfort of this curious stranger's presence, Khedira simply sat watching the falling snow, and decided that it did not matter.


End file.
